


Fire and Ice (The Smoke Gets in Your Eyes Remix)

by Sibilant



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Developing Relationship, Elemental Magic, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: Arthur knows he has to say something. But knowing doesn't make the saying any easier.





	Fire and Ice (The Smoke Gets in Your Eyes Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Fire & Ice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914798) by [IAmANonnieMouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse). 



Arthur stands in front of the open mini bar, Eames’ requested mojito sweating in his hand, and considers his approach.

If this was a job, he’d say, _we need to go over the ground rules again_.

And Eames—if this was a job—would roll his eyes, but heave himself up from the deck chair and fix Arthur with all his attention because, as much as he plays at being careless, Eames understands the importance of team members being on the same page.

But this is, of course, not a job.

This is… well. If Arthur is being honest, he’d probably have an easier time saying what this—thing between him and Eames isn’t.

Arthur looks around the hotel suite—at the minimalist decor offset by gilt wallpaper, the contemporary armchairs upholstered in brilliant cobalt silk, the best compromise that he and Eames could reach when it came to aesthetics. And while Arthur has never felt the need for a private rooftop patio or a plunge pool—

“Your frugality is both depressing and alarming,” Eames had said a month ago, sitting on the bed beside Arthur while he took control of the booking process. “Almost criminal, one might say, if one were inclined toward irony.”

Arthur looked pointedly between his own tailored clothing and Eames’ (deliberately) shabby thrift store ensemble, then at Eames’ lone suitcase sitting beside Arthur’s three.

Eames followed the direction of his gaze. “Oh, that isn’t frugality,” he said with a beatific smile. “Merely tawdry opportunism. I thought to myself, ‘why spend my ill-gotten funds on a hotel room when I can utilise Arthur’s and reimburse him nightly with rare and carnal delights?’”

“Like when you laid back and permitted me to jerk off onto your pecs last night?” Arthur asked. “That sort of rare and carnal delight?”

“Precisely,” Eames said, nodding solemnly until Arthur cracked a grin. He took Arthur by the hand, eyes wide with sudden exaggerated earnestness. “Poor darling Arthur. Allow me to educate you on the wonders of excessive consumption—”

“This past year has unlocked some kind of teacher-student fetish in you, hasn’t it?”

“—on the even more glorious wonder that is my wet, near-naked body emerging from a private plunge pool, clad only in tiny swim briefs.”

Arthur bit his lip, still grinning. “How tiny are we talking?”

“Indecently,” Eames assured him, and Arthur made an approving noise, twisting to grab his wallet from the bedside table. Eames quirked an eyebrow, seeming pleased. “Well, that was quick. And here I was, preparing myself to wear you down slowly.”

Arthur’s smile didn’t slip, but it was a near thing. He ducked his head, as if preoccupied with tugging his credit card out. “I doubt that’ll ever be necessary,” he said, and his voice sounded just right to his ears—smirking, dry. “I’m pretty easy when you get down to it.”

“Mm, no sweeter words have ever been uttered.” Eames leaned in for a kiss, then plucked the card from Arthur’s fingers. “I do love it when you make things easy for me.”

But just how much, Arthur thinks now, would Eames love it if Arthur—if he broke the easiness, if he said—

An unpleasant chill forms in his gut. It sweeps up into his chest, his throat, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, takes a sharp breath, and _shoves_ the feeling aside—

There’s a soft popping, crackling sound, followed by a sudden cold that bites into Arthur’s fingers, an ache that penetrates to the bone.

Arthur’s eyes snap open.

He looks down. Eames’ mojito is frozen solid in his hand. Even the mint sprig is coated in a fine, brittle shell of ice; Arthur—his eyes wide with distant horror—brushes a finger against it. The stem snaps, the leaves shattering into fragments, and Arthur thumps the glass down, the dread displaced by a hot wash of remembered shame and panic.

“Oh, _well done,_ ” Eames says from right behind him, and Arthur jumps, his heart slamming into his ribs, and whirls around.

“Jesus,” he says. “Give a guy some warning, will you?”

Eames raises an eyebrow. His hair is still mussed and all he’s wearing is a pair of loose linen pants that sit low on his hips. Arthur wants to drag him back to bed, distract them both from—everything, but his body refuses to cooperate.

“I did call out to you,” Eames says. “Multiple times. You didn’t respond, so I came to investigate.” He snakes an arm past Arthur and snatches the frozen mojito up, expression gleeful. “This is marvellous, darling. Trips to the ice machine will be a thing of the past now that—” he pauses, turns the glass upside down. Bits of frozen mint fall to the floor, but little else. “Well, alright, there’s still some fine-tuning required. But this—” Eames waggles the glass beneath Arthur’s nose, “—is an excellent sign. Progress in controlling the ice will surely lend itself to progress controlling the fire.”

Arthur’s mouth thins, even as a strange sort of relief snakes through him. Feeling irritated with Eames, while not ideal, is at least safer territory.

“Bullshit it’s a sign.” Arthur grabs the glass and shoves it inside the mini bar, out of sight. He turns back to thumb at a shiny pink finger-shaped burn on Eames’ hip. There are more than a dozen such marks dotting Eames’ torso, and arousal flickers through Arthur at the memory of Eames panting and arching up into his hands, wordlessly asking for more. “I have enough control to do this now, don’t I?”

Though all those marks will soon be gone, he knows, courtesy of Eames’ own elemental physiology. Come sunrise, Eames’ skin will be unmarred, tattoos aside, like Arthur had never touched him, like he was never there to begin with.

The knot in Arthur’s stomach tightens, strangling the arousal dead, and he pushes past Eames, stalks out to the patio. The humid air of Macau hits him like a sweaty slap, but Arthur welcomes it grimly.

He throws himself down onto the deck chair nearest the glass balcony. Glowers out at the manicured resort landscape spread out below him. Arthur has never really cared one way or another about resorts, but the artificial surroundings grate all of a sudden. The precisely placed sandstone slabs and palm trees concealing the facilities, the lazy river ride winding between the buildings, all of it too neat and aesthetically pleasing to be real. Who the fuck did the architects think they were kidding? Only the severely deluded would mistake any of this for something genuine.

The deck chair beside him creaks as Eames takes a seat.

“This is becoming terribly familiar,” Eames murmurs, half to himself.

Arthur resists the useless, self-immolating impulse to say, _so what are you sticking around for,_ because, despite the gut-clenching nausea, he doesn’t actually want Eames to—he doesn’t want this to be—

Arthur thumps his head back against the headrest. Besides, much as he hates to admit it, Eames is right. Arthur’s mood has been dicey ever since they touched down in Macau two weeks ago. Part of him is surprised that Eames has put up with it for even this long. The rest of him is well aware that he can’t go on like this forever. Neither of them can.

And maybe Eames—clever, perceptive, ever-watchful Eames—already knows how Arthur feels, because even a week ago, he would have been teasing and poking Arthur out of his brooding, rather than sitting silently beside him.

And what right does Arthur have to brood, honestly? It’s not like Eames hadn’t warned him.

“I don’t do permanency, as a general rule,” Eames had said, only hours after Arthur had burned a rival team’s headquarters to the ground (with a dubious last-minute assist from Eames). “So no fixed crews, no partnerships, no sidekicks—”

“Sidekicks?” Arthur repeated, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “You’re the dreamshare rookie—”

“And you’re the one-trick fire pony asking for help adjusting your internal thermostat.” As if to emphasise the point, Eames tucked a cigarette between his lips and said, “Do you have a light?”

They were sitting side by side on a park bench, midday sun filtering through the branches of the fig tree overhead. They both reeked of smoke, although Eames had rustled up a low, constant breeze that carried the majority of the smell away. It also ruffled Arthur’s sandwich wrapper and blew his ungelled hair into his eyes, playfully annoying.

Arthur gave Eames a flat look, set his sandwich aside, and pulled a battered Zippo from his pocket—the last present he’d ever received from his mom before he left home for good.

Eames raised his eyebrows. He crooked a finger, and a small, localised burst of air knocked the Zippo from Arthur’s hand, into Eames’ waiting palm. Arthur did his best not to scowl.

“So you weren’t exaggerating, then,” Eames said, cigarette bobbing as he held the flame to it. “The only thing you’re capable of is setting off great big infernos that you can’t even control?”

“The fire only spread because of you,” Arthur said, spluttering. “If you hadn’t—”

“The fire was yours,” Eames said. “You should have been able to call it back. The fact that you can’t at your age is—” he exhaled in a thin stream and squinted at Arthur through the smoke. “Is there something wrong with you? Physically, mentally—”

“No,” Arthur said, irritated.

“—some sort of childhood or adolescent trauma, perhaps—”

“ _No,_ god!” And maybe that had been too emphatic because Eames gave him a mild stare and went silent, smoke curling from his cigarette like a question mark. “I’m not traumatised by anything,” Arthur said. “My family was just kind of crap at teaching me the basics, okay? And when I joined the Marines—”

“Incinerating things en masse made you quite the asset,” Eames finished. “Yes, I think I understand a little better now.”

“Right,” Arthur said. “So will you help me?”

Eames took a deep drag, expression considering. “Well, there’s still the question of what’s in it for me,” he said, but Arthur had been prepared for that.

He sat up straighter—another habit ingrained since childhood and only exacerbated by his military service—saying, “You have debts to the Triad that you can’t pay. I can—well, I can’t make those debts go away entirely. But I do have the connections to get them reduced to a manageable sum, even for someone with your—” he searched his brain for a suitable euphemism, then gave up. “Even for someone with your massive gambling problem.”

Eames grinned, mercifully unoffended, and Arthur gave him a faint, wry smile back.

“Look, I’m not asking you to form the X-Men with me,” Arthur said. “Teach me to control the fire, and when we’re done, you can go on your way. Free to set foot in China and Hong Kong and Macau again without having to look over your shoulder.”

And now here they were. Ten, almost eleven months on, still sitting side by side, still—

Arthur waits, but Eames says nothing—simply watches Arthur steadily, sidelong. And while Arthur is no stranger to long silences, there’s an odd quality to Eames’ silence that Arthur—isn’t used to. It reminds him of the pond behind his parents’ property, the one Arthur escaped to whenever the cold war standoffs between his parents shattered and the shouting began. It had been a deep, deceptively still pool of water, he remembers, and it always stirred a restlessness in him, an urge to toss a stick, a pebble—anything to break the stillness, to see ripples form.

“I’ve been thinking,” Arthur says, then halts as a swell of horror hits him because what is he _doing_? He doesn’t have to do this. 

He could—he could turn to Eames, smile self-deprecatingly instead, and say, _shit, I’m being an asshole, sorry—too much sun and alcohol, or maybe not enough, who knows._ Or he could slide to his knees, coax Eames into spreading his, apologise with his mouth on Eames’ cock. He could pull Eames back to bed, and then—

And then what? Arthur thinks to himself. And then repeat the cycle again, getting a little worse each time, until they loathed the very sight of each other, just like—

“You’re probably going to say this is poor form,” Arthur blurts, before he can rethink it again. “Changing the rules when the game is in play. But—” he swallows, keeps his eyes trained straight ahead, though he can feel Eames’ unwavering gaze on the side of his face. “I didn’t forget. I understood what you meant when you said you don’t do—permanence.”

He stops again, but Eames doesn’t refute it. Doesn’t laugh and say Arthur is being ridiculous, that he’s had a change of heart on the subject of permanent partnerships, and something in Arthur’s chest crumples.

The midday sun is beating down on him, merciless, but Arthur is barely aware of it. His body feels—frozen. Numb with disbelief that he’s going through with this. And perhaps Eames’ masochistic streak in the bedroom is catching because rather than using the heat as a convenient excuse to escape, Arthur looks down at his hands and—keeps talking.

“I was fine with that at the time,” he says. “That’s the truth. But the thing is, now I’m—” The chill gripping his limbs worsens, but Arthur forces his head up, meets Eames’ eyes as he says, “I think I love you.”

Eames’ eyes widen. He opens his mouth, closes it. A small breeze picks up, sending stray leaves skittering across the patio in giddy whirls. Arthur isn’t sure whether it’s Eames’ doing or just coincidence.

“I don’t know for sure if I—but I do know that I care about you,” Arthur says, the words coming faster, a hot spike of panic penetrating at Eames’ continued silence. “I care about you, and I want—” he closes his eyes for a second, knowing he’ll never be able to take this back. Opens them again. “I want more than just this. I want to be with you, I want—”

“Why?” The question bursts from Eames—overly loud, almost angry—and Arthur stops, startled.

Eames’ stillness is gone now. The breeze picks up, whipping at Eames’ hair, at Arthur’s clothes. Eames shoves himself out of the deck chair and paces over to the balcony, gripping the railing tightly.

Arthur stares at the taut line of his shoulders until a memory—a job gone bad, Eames making his escape by hurling himself out a window, creating a zephyr to slow his descent—spurs him into movement.

“Eames,” he says, getting to his feet, but Eames cuts him off.

“It _is_ bloody poor form to change the rules partway through,” he snaps, and the dread crystallises in Arthur’s gut. The temperature around him drops by several degrees.

Arthur can’t—he won’t apologise for being honest, he _won’t_ , but—

“Why?” Eames says again. “Why does it have to be more than—I mean, what do you call all this, then?” He gestures at the hotel suite, then back and forth between them. “We work together, we travel together.” His voice rises and the breeze becomes a sudden gale, strong enough that Arthur struggles to draw a breath. “We spend a frankly bewildering number of nights—sometimes days—sleeping only with each other, we—” he spreads his hands wide. “What is that, if not a relationship?”

“I don’t know!” Arthur says over the roar of the wind, steadying himself as a gust threatens to knock him over. “I don’t what this is, and I don’t know what _you_ think this is, that’s my point. I—” he rakes his hands through his hair and takes a step forward. Eames doesn’t throw himself over the railing, but his wary stance doesn’t change either, and Arthur’s shoulders slump. “I don’t want to lie to you, Eames. I don’t want you to feel like you’ve been—trapped or deceived into something you never wanted. I grew up with that shit, I’ve seen where it leads, okay?” His throat tightens, and he looks at the ground. “The last thing I want to do is repeat it.”

The buffeting wind eases. In the relative quiet, Arthur hears a soft shuffling—Eames moving closer—and his heart thumps treacherously.

“You grew up with that shit,” Eames repeats, his familiar curiosity bleeding through the wariness, and Arthur warms—just a little—to hear it. The warmth fades when Eames says, “Does that shit have anything to do with your ongoing reluctance to use your ice?”

“I—” Arthur ducks his head further, examines a leaf that had landed beside his foot. It’s coated in frost, crystalline and clear.

 _Honesty,_ he thinks to himself. Be honest.

“Yeah. I was—” Arthur rubs the tips of his numb fingers together and peers up at Eames, who gives him a cautious but attentive look back. “My mom’s family—they never approved of her marrying a man who had the water in him. But my parents—” his mouth twists into a humourless smile. “They had this idea that I could be a bridge, maybe. Child of two elements, water and fire. And then I turned out to be—” Arthur toes at the frozen leaf and feels an echo of the old shame. “Ice is an abomination.”

Eames starts. “Don’t tell me your family actually called you that.”

“Not to my face.” Arthur turns and drops back down onto a deck chair, which had been blown several feet along.

The patio is a wreck—one corner of the cabana shade is hanging loose, and there are palm leaves and debris scattered across the tile, floating in Eames’ precious plunge pool. It’s eerily quiet. Eye of the storm or the calm after, Arthur can't tell.

Eames tugs another deck chair over and sits crosswise on it, so he can look at Arthur.

“For as long as I can remember,” Arthur says finally, “my mom blamed my dad for—everything. She’d go on about how she never wanted marriage, never wanted kids, but he wore her down like water wears down a stone. And my dad resented her right back for not being the same person she was when she was twenty.” He tips his head back and stares up at the sky, so brilliantly blue and open. Can he really blame Eames for preferring the boundless possibility of freedom over everything else? “They loved each other once, maybe, but by the time I came around—” Arthur huffs out a laugh. “Hell, maybe because I came around—”

“Your parents’ happiness was never your responsibility,” Eames says quietly.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, and it comes out hoarse. He clears his throat. “What I'm trying to say is—they made each other miserable, always trying to force each other to be this or do that, and I don’t—want that. I won’t do it.” Arthur rubs his face, lets his hand drop. He jumps, surprised when Eames takes it.

The heat from Eames’ palm leeches into his chilled fingers, and Arthur wishes he could take that as enough of a sign, but—

“I need to know,” Arthur says, throat hurting, “if you—if we want the same thing out of this. If we don’t—” he swallows. “Then it’s best we put an end to this now.”

Eames’ expression shutters and pulls his hand away again. Arthur closes his eyes as the hurt radiates through his chest, a throbbing ache that supplants the cold—

There’s a slight scratching noise, followed by a faint, sweet breeze that caresses his face.

Arthur opens his eyes.

Eames is still sitting across from him, head bowed, elbows braced on his knees. The frozen leaf is sliding back and forth on the ground between them, in time with the minute twitches of Eames' fingers, leaving little damp patches as its frost coating melts.

“My parents were equally poor role models,” Eames says, almost muttering. “Though their style of conflict resolution tended towards fleeing and living apart, rather than grinding one another down.” The leaf flips end over end, away from their feet, then back. “I never knew if I’d be returning home to two parents, one parent, or just the servants.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, sensation returning to his body as realisation blooms. “So that’s why—”

“Mm,” Eames says, without looking up. He lets out a short laugh. “It’s incredible, don’t you think—and by incredible I mean appalling—how the influence of family can fester, long after we’ve left them behind?”

“Only if we let it,” Arthur says, unsure of where Eames is going with this. He reaches down and touches the leaf, stilling its movement. The ice melts away from the burgeoning warmth in his fingers, leaving the leaf soggy, but otherwise undamaged. “I’m—well. I’d like to try not letting it.”

Eames makes a noncommittal sound, but another breeze ruffles Arthur’s hair, bringing with it the fresh, tangy smell of the sea, a marked contrast to the resort’s plethora of artificially pleasant scents. Then:

“I’m rubbish at relationships,” Eames says. He raises his head, meets Arthur’s eyes. “I’ve never had a successful one.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, one corner of his mouth quirking up. He doesn’t look away. “I know.” The very first job they’d worked together, Arthur had been brought on because Eames had seduced (and then dumped) the previous point man. It wasn’t an isolated incident. “I’m not so hot at relationships myself.”

Eames’ forehead wrinkles. “Then why in the world do you want us to embark on one together?”

“Because—because I do,” Arthur says, blinking. He looks around like he can divine a better, more edifying answer from their ruined surroundings. No such answer appears. “Because this has been good, it’s been fun, but—” Arthur looks back at Eames, who leans forward a little. “I think it could be even better. I think we could be great.” He shifts closer, tentatively, until their knees brush. “Only if you want to, though.”

“I could really fuck this up,” Eames says, adopting the crisp tone he uses whenever he's instructing Arthur on a complicated technique. A helpless smile creeps across Arthur’s mouth, one that Eames returns after a moment. “I’ve never stayed in one place or stuck with anyone long enough for a relationship to work. I’ve never wanted to—try before.”

“It’s a start,” Arthur says. He leans in, rests his forehead against Eames’. “Trying is a good ground rule to begin with, I think.”


End file.
